The perfect companion

We all know about the pain of finding the perfect pair of jeans. They've got to fit properly, be the right length, reflect current fashion trends, go with all your other clothing items and lastly, but most importantly, they must be comfortable.

Little known to most, the pain of finding The Perfect Suitcase is excruciatingly similar.

I was looking forward to the purchase of The Perfect Suitcase. It was my last thing To Do on a long list of To Dos and it's purchase was to signal the commencement of the packing process- something I will only begin once it's very, very close to departure time, so as not to excite myself too much. (And obviously because packing one's clothes away too far ahead is highly impractical).

Not only this, but this is my first suitcase. My very own. Prior trips I've bagged, borrowed and stealed luggage. Due to the fact that my ticket was a one-way, it was time to be independant and purchase my own. Much like one invests in a good pair of jeans in the hopes that they will last a long time, through good times and bad, through wear and tear, I had the same high hopes of my suitcase.

Firstly, it had to look good and it had to stand out. It was important for me not to be searching for yet another black suitcase in a carousel full of one million other black suitcases, yet I didn't want to embarass myself by rolling up in chic Paris with a gaudy one-tone pink, blue or red.

It had a size and weight limit. Allowance for the Air New Zealand flight: 20 kilos. Size requirements for the Contiki tour: A paltry 75cm x 50cm x 25cm. However, it had to be big enough to quite literally compartmentalise my life into.

And lastly, yet most importantly, it had to be comfortable. Easy to roll around airports and subway stations, not too heavy to be lifting off carousels and out of taxis.

Six hours, two girlfriends and one caffeine hit later, The Perfect Suitcase was located, purchased and stowed away in the wee boot of my car. And just like how the non-designer denim we find doesn't look the same way a pair of Louis Vuitton's would, my suitcase wasn't the beautiful one I had pictured (adorned with a glowing halo)but it still had it all. Colour, flair, size and comfort.

I lugged it off the shelf as I would a carousel. I wheeled it down the aisles with the steely determination of those who vie to be the first through customs. I zipped and unzipped, mentally decided where the shoes and dirty laundry would go. I pretended to rifle through layers of clothing to find the perfect outfit for the Moulin Rouge.

And the most ironic thing? The equivalent to the perfect pair of (non-Louis) jeans was found at none other than The Warehouse. For a bottom-of-the-barrel price. (I can feel fashionistas the world-over recoiling). And so, with the Perfect Suitcase now sitting in the corner of my room, upright and beaming, it dawns on me that now is the time to start filling it.

Something tells me this is going to be a far harder task than finding the vessel was.